I Miss You
by cheetana
Summary: TF:A Ratchet reminisces about his old friend, Omega Supreme. Slash


I dedicate to my grandfather who passed away earlier this evening. I'll miss him.

Disclaimer: Don't own TF:A, never will. If I did, this wouldn't be on , now would it?

**I Miss You**

It was one of those moments when Ratchet felt like the base was shrinking, closing in on him like a cage. Like he was an organic; losing oxygen below the dark surface of the deepest ocean. And his spark flared up, oozing the pain that threatened to fill him completely.

It had been so long ago, Omega had sacrificed himself. Maybe he would be offline forever more. Ratchet remembered screaming the larger mech's name, crying 'noooo' when the other was shot down. So helpless, so useless, and so lost. And so lonely.

They had been prone to talking for hours. About everything, every stray little thought that crept up on them in the endless night that was Cybertron's surrounding sky. And sometimes it was so nice just to talk, or even just sit in companionable silence. The war was just so tiring, so full of death and hostility; one couldn't help but desire a reprieve. Omega became Ratchet's reprieve.

The ship was just as lonely as he. They understood each other, like artists understood that colour and emotion mix like spiced wine on a Wintery day. And words flowed easily between them. The language of friendship twinkles bright like almost-distant stars in the surrounding galaxy.

Ratchet told stories his creator had told him, gave the large mech his fear, his compassion. In turn, the ship would tell him how bright the stars were, his affinity with them due to his size, his need to feel accepted and loved.

Ratchet fell in love.

It was not at all as hard or as strange as he'd originally believed. A small brush, whisperings of a large claw-like digit brushing his helm. A smile, sometimes large, often small, a fleeting phantom flashed in his direction. Flares of a huge beautiful spark as he was cradled against the other's chassis in embraces that seemed to last for mega-cycles. And then the words, words that held promise, that thundered hope, that were spoken in a tone that begged for his attentions. And those looks of longing that made his spark claw at the young medic's armour, thumping with nervous desire.

There had been no awkward confessions of feelings. They both already knew how the other felt, could read into each other's unspoken poetry perfectly. Moments of true clarity are rare that they deserve treasuring. The kissing attempts had been difficult and only half-successful, but the heated moments had been amazing, Ratchet cradled in overly-large digits, small white mouth working against huge yellow lips, void of the orange tinted visor.

And they had bonded. There was no time to waste in war; one of them could be permanently off-lined at any point. In such a world, was there any point in waiting for something they both wanted?

And then, that fateful day. And Omega had done it and Ratchet had thought he'd almost died as well. His spark had clamped in on itself. He'd been offline for a long while; his comrades had suspected him dead, or dying. And then he'd awoken and then Omega had been gone and he was all alone again.

And the war continued on. Ratchet had sworn never to love another; his spark would always be Omega's. What were they fighting for? Cybertron? What was Cybertron when the only 'bot you loved had been taken away from you? It was a rock suspended in space, nothing more, nothing less.

But tugs at his spark stopped him from giving up. Perhaps it was remnants of his long lost lover, or markings of his own secretive hope, it didn't matter. He'd trudged on through the war.

And so, he had ended up here. On a strange little organic planet, with a rag-tag group of mechs that felt so much like a family, it hurt to think of losing them. A tug ran through his spark, stronger this time.

He thought of Omega Supreme, he loved him, loved him with his entire spark. He would never forget the mech, would hope to be reunited with him someday, whether though a miracle or perhaps in another life.

Ratchet finished talking, tears of excess optic cleaning fluid flooding his cheeks. Arms encircled him, from high: Bulkhead, to low: Sari. They held him, five members of a strange little family that could never replace what he had lost.

But were helping to rebuild him, piece by piece.


End file.
